Rain
by Meriarty
Summary: It was supposed to become something else entirely, but Aziraphale ended up to become... This.
1. Storm

**Written out of sheer boredom. And I know Susan likes Fallen!Az. So uh- Enjoy. Also, I do think it's better and makes slighyly more sense if you read it while listening to Thistle and Weeds by Mumford and Sons. Trust me, you'll see-slash-hear why.**

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"This is not right. This is not how it was meant to be." It was Aziraphale's only thought as he sat there alone on his knees, blonde curls tangled and dripping with red water, face smeared with a mix that consisted of blood, dirt, blood and tears. The sky had darkened afterwards, and, as if Heaven itself had been personally victimised, was now crying. Thick raindrops were falling down onto Aziraphale. All he knew was that he had lost. Lost it all. Not simply this. It was all so very complicated.

He had tried. But simply couldn't fight against him. So he had chosen to fight against Him. Proper blasphemy. The angel could feel the weight of his fellow angel's judgements and could hear them whisper in his ears. About him. But they were dying out. Disappearing.

It was turning dark now. If this had been different, Aziraphale would have stopped to admire the bright colours of the last rays of sunlight turning into the darker colours, with stars spread across the sky, like seeds. Spirits, like humans told their kids, planted there to rest. Aziraphale knew better.

For the first time, he knew what it was like to be cold. To feel the wind biting his skin, his clothes nor angelic immunity shielding him. For the first time he could experience pain. To _feel _pain is something entirely different. It bit him, as if every previous scar got ripped open. Thousands of knives dragging across his skin, hundreds of bullets piercing through his muscles. The feeling of bones snapping. Sanity practically dripping down, forming a mixture with the sweet raindrops and salty tears.

He thought it would have been better. Glorious, even. But, needlessly to say, he had been misguided. Aziraphale felt like he didn't belong here anymore. It didn't feel right. He felt like weed between perfect flowers. Despite the fact that bodies were spread across the field, all creatures living had already fled, but not Aziraphale. The bodies belonged to angels, to their souls, and to demons. They had been smiting and stabbing with angel blades. But the sword in front of him seemed to have given up, just like it's wielder. It was now simply glowing orange, as if it had been laying in a fire, ready to be forged.

And that was when lightning struck. All things happened at the same time. The sky lit up, but the rain didn't stop. They had returned to claim their losses. A hand on the blonde man's shoulder, pulling him up. Flash of yellow, flash of dark hair and the smell of electricity, the smell of strong liquor and leather. And suddenly, he knew that all the remaining purity had been rinsed off of himself and the other one pulled him flush against his chest.

It was okay. He was okay. The whispers that had stopped returned, but the words were uttered by one person. One person Aziraphale knew he loved.

So they were standing there as the rain streamed down, until all the dirt was washed out of the blonde hair, until he could move. Until he had gotten out of shock. Until the world around Aziraphale and Crowley had turned a shade darker, as if he had putten on shades. And for the first time, Aziraphale truly understood Crowley.


	2. Quiet

It was a chase, a wild chase from one corner to another. It wasn't so much as a physical chase as it was a mental one. Mentally exhausting, but to surrender wasn't an option. Everything was dim and sometimes, when all was too overwhelming, he fell to his knees and looked up. Looked up at what was now the sky, at what used to be so much more than a collection of clouds and colours. Full of words that had gone quiet and had turned empty. He looked up in search of that light that used to guide him. He looked up to find all things dark and empty. All he saw where the ruins of the life he used to live; Something that didn't seem all to bad now. And every time, there in the darkness, he'd make a promise, to go against everything natural and to him unfamiliar.

He believed, but his faith had dripped away, had washed off of the fallen angel. Now he believed in himself, something he thought he'd been doing all along, but how free was freedom?

A new guiding light had been found, yet it was not unfamiliar. The light was dim though, like everything else, but he hoped that he was right; Right when he thought his guiding light was always a little brighter than the world around him. But perhaps, he sometimes thinks, it was his imagination. It wouldn't be the first time. And whenever he was lost, he'd talk to his light in the darkness, his voice a whisper. Then he needed to be reminded of why he was here, why he had given up, why he wasn't where he had always thought he belonged. And then he truly realized what he had done, and what the consequences where. But he also realized there would always be his light in all his dimness.

But those weren't the moments he cherished and wished for. Those moments where when the streams of salty water had dried on his cheeks and left the stinging sensation on his cheeks as well on his darkened soul. Those, he liked to think, where the seams that closed the scars that had been created and torn open every time he was reminded of the past. Those moments where when he saw the light, where he realized he was clinging onto something that wasn't anymore. Then came acceptance. Because he was alone, yet loved. Loved by something that made love seem impossible. Someone who had seen the world in all it's darkness like himself. Loved by his guiding light and alone with his guiding light, and he realized and accepted that he would never be able to try and comprehend the ineffable anymore and even though it was what scared him, he could accept. Those where the times before he'd start to whisper, before silent prayers and silent hoping. It was only until afterwards when he realized he was praying to himself. Perhaps to encourage himself, perhaps to wake himself up, but most of all to thank himself.


End file.
